Hand and Foot
by Artemicion
Summary: A cracktastic, Despicable Me-inspired fill for this prompt: "Mycroft doesn't do anything; he has minions do it for him"


**Hand and Foot**

**A/N: This is a fill for a prompt at the Sherlockbbc_fic community: "**_**Mycroft doesn't do anything at all; he has minions do it for him.**_**"**

**So I saw this prompt literally two minutes after I'd seen a Despicable Me commercial. This just sort of...happened...**

**Disclaimer: I do not known Sherlock or Despicable Me. No profit is being made off of this story, just for pure fun. :-D**

* * *

Anthea had never told him where they came from, just that they had been a gift from an associate of theirs that had been repaying a kindness that Mycroft had once done for him. Not that Mycroft Holmes needed much more than _that _and the sight in front of him to deduce exactly _which_ associate that she had spoken of. The _kindness_, he concluded, was keeping a reformed self-proclaimed super villain out of prison now that the man had found his calling as a father to three orphaned girls. Still, Mycroft had only been dangling the possibility of incarceration as a means of keeping the man in line (having a super villain in one's pocket for a rainy day could be useful, after all). Aside from that whole moon-stealing debacle a few years ago, as a super villain Gru proved to be rather mundane in his criminal antics.

"Fatherhood must be changing him more than we anticipated," Mycroft commented as he crossed his arms across his chest and watched through the one-way mirror, contemplating what he was supposed to do with his 'gifts.' Currently, the three were investigating the single camera that was installed in the room. They were piled atop one another, with the tallest staggering under the weight of his two companions in a way that made them lean to and fro like an unstable pillar of yellow, blue worker's overalls...and a French maid dress.

"The short one is Dave. And from what I gather, the tall one is Jerry."

Mycroft couldn't hide his surprise as he glanced at his assistant. "They have _names?_"

There was amusement in her eyes, but Anthea was always an utmost professional. "Yes, sir."

"And the one in the French maid outfit?"

"That's Phil."

"Huh. All ridiculously boring American names."

"I believe the idea was for the least amount of attention possible to be drawn to them," Anthea was trying very hard not to smile.

A crash drew their eyes back to the spectacle. The pillar had toppled, almost taking the camera with them. As it dangled and sparked from the ceiling, the three minions were strewn about. Phil had landed face first and had his rear sticking up amid the folds of skirt, revealing poofy white underwear. Dave, who'd taken the brunt of the fall, immediately sprang to his feet and charged over to the dazed Jerry. He grabbed the front of Jerry's overalls and dragged him up so that he was right in his face.

"Dabada!" Dave snarled, teeth gritted.

Jerry gave him a dopey and sheepish grin. "Sowry?"

In response, Dave smacked him hard with one black-gloved, three fingered hand. This elicited a cry of protest from Jerry, who then immediately slapped him back. Enraged, Dave began slapping at Jerry with both hands. The taller minion managed to avoid most of the hits by holding Dave off with one hand pressed against the middle of the large goggles on Dave's face. Dave continued his attempted assault, his little arms becoming windmills that got in a hit or two despite Jerry's best efforts to stave him off. By now, Phil had managed to turn himself over and was fretting over the disheveled state of his uniform.

Dave and Jerry's fight turned into an all-out wrestling match. They continued to exchange blows, rolling all over the floor of the interview room. They upended the single table in the room and sent one chair crashing to the ground.

"_HIYAAHHH!_" Dave bellowed as he jumped and landed a kick square in the center of Jerry's chest.

"Gru's message indicates that Dave is fit to be a bodyguard should you need one. He's skilled in advanced weaponry and in hand-to-hand. Oh, and he's also a black belt in Jiu Jitsu, Tae Kwon Do, and Aikido," Anthea stated, offering Mycroft a black-and-white photo of the minion garbed in a white gi and accepting a folded black belt from Gru while defeated minions were scattered about their feet.

Mycroft looked at the photo for a moment before he looked up in time to see Jerry get thrown right into the mirror. The tall minion smacked into the smooth surface and then slowly slid downward, landing with a plop somewhere below. Dave was in a fighting pose and let out a ferocious cry, eyes wide and crazed behind his goggles, that would have made Bruce Lee proud.

"What does the tall...Jerry? What does he specialize in?" Mycroft couldn't believe he was actually considering his gifts as potentially _useful_.

Anthea shuffled some papers around in the folder. "He's...ah, here. He's very handy. The notes indicate that he is able to fix the majority of household items and is somewhat of an auto mechanic. He can also repair a death-ray or a _shrink_-ray without much issue."

"A pity the Prime Minister had us decommission that death-ray," Mycroft murmured, only half-kidding.

"Hmm," Anthea agreed and closed the folder. She watched the minions for a moment. Phil was now on his feet and standing between Dave and Jerry, his hands outstretched as he made consolatory noises to sooth the other two. "What do you intend to do with them, sir?"

It was a rare day to hear Mycroft Holmes admit: "You know? I haven't the foggiest idea."

* * *

When he decided to take the minions to his home for further study, Anthea voiced her concern that this could have been some sort of elaborate trap on Gru's part. Mycroft agreed, but he also pointed out that Gru would not be so foolish as to try something when the man _knew_ just how closely they were watching him. The black vehicle seen randomly outside of his daughters' school had not been particularly well-hidden for a reason. But a part of Mycroft was genuinely curious by his odd little gifts.

Phil, as it turned out, was something of a culinary expert and quickly put in charge of domestic chores around Mycroft's home. He was also a lover of music, much to Mycroft's private amusement, and would dance around singing or humming under his breath while he vacuumed or dusted. Mycroft came home to find his bewildered housekeeper shuffled neatly to the side while a tiny yellow minion in a his ridiculous French maid uniform cleaned and cooked with such zeal that Mycroft found himself seriously questioning why he hadn't thought of confiscating some of Gru's little subordinates before.

"Bapple?" Phil offered to Mycroft as he hesitantly wandered into the kitchen to see what the minion was cooking. There was something delicious-smelling simmering on the stove, and the oven was clearly set on pre-heat. Phil himself was propped up on a stool at the island counter. He was peeling and slicing apples and had a pie crust already molded and waiting to his right.

Mycroft was too busy taking in the bizarre scene to immediately respond. Finally, he politely declined the apple Phil was holding up to him. "No thank you. I think I'll wait. It...smells wonderful, though."

Phil flashed him the most brilliant of grins before he went back to his peeling and chopping. A sizzle at the stove made Phil whirl and bolt to the stool he'd pushed over in order to reach the burners. There, he began meticulously lifting lids, mixing, and tasting. He made a face at one taste and vigorously added salt to the pot in question. A second taste test made him kiss his fingers and exclaim. "Ah! _Perfecto_!"

When he saw Mycroft still hovering nearby, torn between amusement and bewilderment, Phil scooped up another spoonful and held it out to him. He uttered in a hopeful tone. "Nomnom?"

Too out of his depth to refuse, Mycroft awkwardly accepted the spoon and brought it to his mouth. He was surprised when an explosion of complex flavors melted across his tongue. He smacked his lips a little to savor the taste. He gave Phil a smile of approval. "Delicious. Thank you."

Phil beamed under his praise. He ushered Mycroft out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where Anthea was already seated and sipping some tea while she pretended not to watch Dave and Jerry bicker about lighting the fireplace. The long table was only set for the two people, though.

Mycroft hesitated and sat at his place at the head of the table and stared. "Where did they get those butler uniforms?"

Anthea just shrugged. A second later Phil peeked out from the kitchen and called for Dave and Jerry to come help him. The three minions reappeared bearing serving trays. Jerry was the only one tall enough to reach the table so he was delegated the task of placing the dishes on the tabletop. Phil poured them wine while babbling enthusiastically about the food, almost none of which Mycroft understood except for a few words here and there.

When serving was finished, Phil kissed his fingertips again and bade them, "_Bon appetit!_"

Anthea hesitantly tasted the sausage and kale soup, then a bite of a freshly baked roll. She blinked in astonishment. "This is amazing."

"You may not want to fill up too much. I believe I saw him making an apple pie earlier," Mycroft wryly replied.

* * *

Jerry's technical prowess was put to the test when Mycroft's laptop blue screened at a critical time. He had been in the middle of reading an encrypted document, a document that only had a lifespan of _minutes_, sent to him by one of his agents. Uttering a curse, he quickly hit the power button to reboot it. The startup seemed to take ages. By the time it was back up and running, he only managed to open the document long enough to watch the message erase itself. To rub salt in the wound, the screen abruptly turned a vivid blue again, followed by a stream of error messages.

"Oh for fuck's sake..." Mycroft muttered, allowing himself a moment's lapse in control to vent his frustration. The sound of his fist hitting the tabletop didn't go unnoticed.

He heard the shuffle of boots against the plush rug. He leaned over to see past the laptop screen. Jerry crept up to the desk. The front of his overalls were stained from changing the oil in the car. When he grinned nervously up at him, Mycroft saw a smudge of oil smeared across one of the minion's cheeks. Mycroft looked back at him for a long moment, then asked. "I don't suppose you know how to fix laptops as well as household appliances and vehicles?"

He was startled when Jerry snapped to a salute and set upon the laptop. Before Mycroft could even blink, Jerry had snatched the laptop off of the desk and trotted off with it extended over his head, chanting _hut hut hut hut_ as he ran through the house. Mycroft followed at a more sedated pace. He found Jerry huddled over the laptop at what appeared to be a small workbench (where in the world had this come from?).

In the short time that the laptop had been out of his sight, Jerry had already dismantled it. The lid and screen lay to one side surrounded by screws and pieces from the inside of the laptop itself. When Mycroft cleared his throat, Jerry twisted his head around to look at him. There was magnifying headset attached to his head that made his already giant eyes even more giant as they blinked up at Mycroft.

"Do you know the source of the problem?" Mycroft asked mildly.

Jerry nodded enthusiastically. He rifled through the various parts that he had been removing and presented Mycroft with what appeared to be the laptop's hard drive. Mycroft took it from him; his eyes narrowed on the burn marks he saw along the bottom. He thought of the message he couldn't finish reading and wondered exactly what else his agent may have transmitted with it. It would need some scrutiny from his people.

"Thank you," Mycroft said as he tucked the hard drive into an interior pocket of his suit. "You can just dump the rest…"

Jerry had already reassembled the laptop, though. He had reassembled it AND slid in a new hard drive (Where had THAT come from?). "...into the bin."

"Ta-da!" Jerry crowed proudly as the laptop smoothly rebooted and began loading the operating system. The minion looked up at Mycroft, and the sight of his hopeful eyes enlarged through the magnifying glass was so bizarre that he _laughed_. What else was he supposed to do?

Jerry seemed startled by the laughing. Startled...and then worried. The minion gave a nervous chuckle, unsure what was going on. Mycroft knew he was scaring the poor thing, but he couldn't help himself. It'd been such a strange week.

* * *

It was a full three weeks later before Dave's specialty was put on display. Mycroft's life with his minions had developed an oddly domestic pattern. He found himself waking to the smell of coffee and breakfast. His three-piece suits were always pressed and hung on the closet door for him. His shoes were polished so regularly that it was no wonder that he could see his face reflected back at him.

His house, which had once been quiet and serene, was constantly filled with the inane chattering or uncontrollable giggling from somewhere. But the minions performed whatever duties Mycroft gave them and they did them _well_. Mycroft's yard had never looked better. Nor did the inside of his home. Or the garage. Or the shed. And the food? Well...let's just say it was a good thing that he hadn't been by Baker Street to see Sherlock; he certainly would have had to endure a barb or two about his weight-none of which he would have been able to defend himself properly against.

He should have known that his absence wouldn't have gone unnoticed for long.

Mycroft was watching Phil pour several different liquors into a shaker to make him a drink while Jerry coaxed a fire to life in the fireplace. The tall minion accidentally caught fire at one point and ran around flailing his arms and shrieking in panic. "HOT HOT HOT HOT! AHHHHHHH!"

"Whoa!" Phil exclaimed and thought quick. He grabbed a hold of the bucket of ice and dumped it over Jerry's head. There wasn't enough liquid to extinguish the flames, though, so it just left Jerry flinching from the sudden ice storm and then he slipped on the cubes scattered across Mycroft's expensive rug.

"Roll, you fool! ROLL!" Mycroft commanded. Jerry frantically complied. He rolled so hard that he knocked a table containing an expensive Indian vase over. Phil dove and caught it just in time. No sooner had he place it safely on the coffee table did the still rolling Jerry bowl him over. The force of the collision sent minions, table, and vase all crashing into the nearby wall. The minions lay dazed amid the debris that used to be Mycroft's living room.

But before he could open his mouth to scold or scream, _another_ crash came from the front foyer. Mycroft instinctively looked for the nearest gun that he'd had stashed away (for emergencies), cursing the inefficiency of the security team he had placed outside his home. What was the point of having them if-

"HIIIIYYYAAAAHHH!"

The front door burst open, forcibly ripped from its hinges due to the impact of the body that had come flying through it. Mycroft was horrified to see Sherlock stumble, hands shooting out to stop his fall against a table. His little brother was not the mysterious, immaculate picture he tried to portray. His hair was in complete disarray, and his precious jacket had one sleeve nearly completely torn off.

"Sherlo-"

Sherlock's blue eyes were wide with disbelief and panic. "Run, Mycroft! It's a little yellow demon-"

He was cut off by a yellow blur that suddenly shot through the doorway and headbutted him right int he midsection. Sherlock gasped in pain, the wind knocked out of him. He didn't even get a chance to recover before he was being uppercutted by a small, gloved fist. This time, he did go crashing to the ground and gasped for air as he tried desperately to figure out what was going on, what was _attacking him._

"Dave! DAVE! STOP!" Mycroft bellowed as he ran forward to prevent his brother from further harm.

Dave didn't relax from his Tiger stance, but he did throw Mycroft a surprised look. "Burgleeboo?!"

"No, no. Not a burgleeb...er, burglar. He's just my _brother_. Stand _down_," Mycroft ordered.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled to get his attention. He was still sprawled across the floor, eyes watering slightly but otherwise looked unhurt. In fact, he didn't even seem to be aware that he was still laying on the ground. His wide eyes were fixed on Dave and then to Phil and Jerry, who were charging forward armed with a _rocket launcher_ and a _sword!_ They froze only when Mycroft snarled for them to freeze right where they were.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said with an exasperated tone. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock's eyes never once wavered from the minions even as Mycroft helped him to his feet. "You haven't meddled in my affair for weeks, Mycroft. _Weeks_. You normally can't help yourself. Naturally, I was curious as to why." He swallowed and blinked hard, as if unsure if his eyes were feeding him the correct information. But no, the minions were still there.

"Has it ever occurred to you, brother-mine, that I might have more important things to attend to rather than my self-indulgent, arrogant trouble magnet of a brother?" Mycroft retorted as if nothing was unusual about their day.

"You haven't even called. Or sent a car to kidnap John. I deduced the worst. I simply came to make sure that you weren't tied up in your own home since you have only been at your office once or twice in the past weeks. I figured you were either being held here against your will or that you had suffocated during one of your cake binges. How embarrassing that would be to explain to mummy," Sherlock admitted, calming down just a little. His wide-eyed look of bewilderment was slowly becoming one of fascination the longer he stared at the minions.

"Your concern is touching as always, Sherlock. But as you can see I have handled my 'cake binges' just fine."

Sherlock spared one look to his midsection and snorted. His eyes were already back to staring even as he spoke to Mycroft. "I'd hardly say that. You're a veritable whale."

Mycroft sniffed, not even bothering to dignify that insult with a response. "_Why_ are you here again? As you can see, I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much. So if you'd be so kind as to see yourself out…"

"Mycroft," Sherlock cut him off in a hard voice, looking just slightly worried as he met his brother's eyes for the first time. "You SEE them, right? I'm not…?"

Though he delighted in any chance to tease his brother, there was real concern in Sherlock's voice. Mycroft sighed, taking pity on him. "Yes, Sherlock. They're real."

"What _are_ they, though?"

"They're _minions_," Mycroft answered carefully, figuring the truth, no matter how bizarre, was the best approach. After the answer seemed to provide Sherlock no measure of comfort, he added. "That's Dave, Phil, and Jerry."

"Hullo!" Phil chirped while Jerry gave a little wave, his rocket launcher still in hand. Dave continued to stare at Sherlock with suspicious eyes.

Sherlock just looked more mystified by what he was seeing, what he was _hearing_. Mycroft patiently let his brother soak in the information, knowing that any minute the gears in Sherlock's head would either come up with some desperately logical explanation...or give up because there _was_ no logical explanation. Finally, Sherlock spoke again in a voice that was strangely calm. "Mycroft...I'd be curious to know what you have been doing all these weeks."

Mycroft looked at Phil and sent him off to prepare tea. Then he had Jerry and Dave clean up the mess in the living room. The Holmes brothers watched them work for a few minutes before Mycroft gave Sherlock an amused look. "Oh Sherlock. Where do I even begin?"

_**~Fin~**_


End file.
